


There should be robots

by Deputychairman



Category: Star Wars RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, I'm taking one for the team here, M/M, Oscar Isaac's hair, Someone had to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deputychairman/pseuds/Deputychairman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, we should talk about how you see sex as a transaction, Domhnall, that can’t be healthy, man,” he says, “but you've already bought me dinner a load of times - ”</p><p>“I have, but I could get my coat and go out for <em>flowers</em>, if that'd make you feel better. God knows I don't want you to think I offer to go down on <em>everyone </em>I work with, so if you need this to be more special I think there's a 24 hour Tesco up the road - I could get you a Terry's Chocolate Orange, or - ”</p>
            </blockquote>





	There should be robots

 

The thing you never expect about film sets is when you’re really going to hit it off with someone. You can spend weeks filming and weeks on press and feel nothing more than professional regard for your co-star. Or you can spend weeks filming and weeks on press and come away from it with a new best friend, someone who still sends you messages that are alternately filthy, surreal and philosophical reflections on the nature of artificial intelligence even when you’re not on the same continent.

Once it’s a picture of a someone Domhnall doesn’t know with a Roomba in his lap, apparently stroking it like a cat, and the caption “XXX oscar” to which he replies “????”. Three days later he receives “I’m getting one where are you living i’ll send one to you too”. “I outsource my cleaning but thanks anyway” he sends back and gets no reply.

It’s him who sends Oscar the link to the Microsoft AI research, but unless he’s joined the rest of the world in 2015 he might not even be able to open it on his historic phone. “Get a new phone” he adds. “You’re just embarrassing yourself back there in 2008”. Oscar’s reply is instant: a close up of his face, unshaven, probably hungover and yet still annoyingly chiselled, blowing a kiss. The photo quality is pretty good though, so maybe he does have a new phone.

So it’s not like anyone would turn down Star Wars, but being in another movie with Oscar makes him even more enthusiastic about signing on. It makes a difference, being able to hang out with someone who really gets you.

When they find out practically half of Oscar’s onscreen interactions are with a robot, that’s just the icing on the cake.

 

Filming a blockbuster sci fi franchise movie with a budget that rivals a small country’s GDP can be surprisingly boring, which is why it’s so important having someone on set who laughs until he almost chokes when the robot prop rolls away from him instead of towards him and Domhnall whispers, “It’s just playing hard to get, try growing the beard back,” in his ear.

Sure, the hotel is great and there’s a fleet of fancy limos to whisk them all out to Pinewood, no expense spared, but in spite of the amazing sets there is still a lot of hanging around while other people stand in front of green screens.

On Friday night, after a first week doing nothing, Domhnall can’t settle. The young cast are going out, some nightclub in central London, and they’re great kids - he could go with them. But what’s new for them is been there, done that for him. Central London clubs can offer you the most expensive drinks of your life and your photo in the Mail Online in the morning, and he can happily live without those things now.

He meant to drag Oscar to a normal pub with him, but when he knocks on the door to his room Oscar opens it barefoot and blinking and says, “Hey, man. I feel asleep.”

He yawns and rubs the back of his neck and the idea of staying right here is suddenly weirdly appealing.

“I actually embrace middle age and the inevitable decline of the flesh, you know” he says, and Oscar laughs and steps back for him to come in.

“Your art will be your legacy,” Oscar says.

There’s beer enough for an army in the fridge, and a couch that could seat most of one too. But they both end up in the middle with their knees almost touching, watching Star Trek. Or Oscar is watching Star Trek: Domhnall finds himself watching Oscar more than the screen.

His jawline, in particular. This is the first time Domhnall's actually seen him clean-shaven and he looks like a different person. They’ve straightened his hair into matinee idol waves, flattened on one side where he must have slept on it, and that’s new too. He doesn’t choose his friends based on their looks, but right now he can’t help noticing that Oscar is _ridiculously_ good-looking. It would almost be rude _not_ to stare at him. With a buzzcut and a revolting hipster beard it was very hard to see, which was kind of the point; and it was turned down to ignorable levels under wild hair and a less revolting beard on the press tour, but now it is blatant and blinding and pressed up against his shoulder. Heavier and heavier against his shoulder, until Oscar is slumped sideways and using him for a pillow.

If he was insecure in his masculinity, he might be disturbed by how nice it is. It’s like having a cat sit on your lap for the first time: it’s an unexpected honour and you damn well keep still for as long as the cat wants to be there.

“Are you going back to sleep on me?” Domhnall asks eventually. He’s almost whispering, like he’s afraid Oscar will move if he wakes him up.

“Thinking about it, yeah. Are you gonna keep staring at me?”

Domhnall's heart thumps with something that feels a little bit like guilt.

“I’m not staring at you, I’m staring at your hair,” he protests. “And a little bit at how you don’t have a beard for the first time since I’ve known you.”

“Harrison Ford stared at my hair too. Said it was a wig. What is it about my hair, anyway?” Oscar tilts his head to look up at him, and the moment seems to stretch out for an eternity. Oscar looking up at him like he knows everything Domhnall's thinking. Which he honestly hadn’t been thinking before, and probably shouldn’t be thinking now, about what would happen if he just leaned in -

“People stare at my hair too,” he manages, straightening just a little. Not enough to be unfriendly, just enough to not be weird. Because who thinks that about their friend, just because the guy shaved and someone did his hair? He hasn’t had _nearly_ enough to drink to explain this away.

Oscar grins at that. “Yeah, I bet they do. It’s good hair.”

“That means a lot to me, Oscar, thank you,” Domhnall tells him, mock serious. This is what they need to get back to. Oscar’s about to say something about how ginger he is, or the schoolboy haircut he has for this shoot, and the moment will pass.

But Oscar doesn’t say anything else. He just drains his beer, and Domhnall is sharply and inexplicably disappointed when he hauls himself to his feet. For a second he thinks that’s his cue to leave, that he’s made this weird and Oscar is the smart guy who’s going to say, _see you in the morning, man, got an early start_.

He’s way too relieved when Oscar opens the fridge and waves another bottle of beer at him.

“Yes. Please,” he says, smiling so hard he probably looks a little bit scary.

Oscar doesn’t look scared. He grins back and sits down again, and before Domhnall can regret the fact that he’s left more space between them, he’s lying back on the couch with a grunt and stretching out, swinging his legs up over Domhnall's lap.

Domhnall nearly spills his beer.

“Oh, am I in your way here, Oscar?” he asks through a cough.

Oscar pats him on the arm. “You’re good.”

And he goes back to watching TV. His shirt has ridden up to show an inch of midriff, and Domhnall firmly doesn’t look at it. Staring at his hair is one thing, staring at his bare stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans - that wouldn’t leave much room for misinterpretation.

Domhnall doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but Oscar hasn’t really left him much choice. It’s either rest his arms on Oscar’s knees or sit here like a porn baron with them stretched out over the top of the couch, beer in one hand and Oscar in his lap.

In the second it takes him to think about it, he notices Oscar is smirking at him.

“What?”

“Don’t be so uptight, I’m not gonna slap you if you put your hand on my knee.”

So Domhnall rolls his eyes, puts his arms down on the surprising warmth of Oscar’s legs, and deliberately rests the cold beer as high on Oscar’s thigh as he thinks he can get away with. And then he stares hard at the television, which is now showing a documentary about Pluto. It might have been on for hours, he has no idea. He really hasn’t been watching.

Oscar clears his throat loudly.

“I said your hand, and my _knee_. That is like, my inner thigh, dude.”

“If you have to slap me, I understand,” Domhnall tells him without looking at him. If he looks at him, he might end up doing something he’ll regret.

It’s Oscar who does it instead.

He sighs theatrically then plucks the beer out of Domhnall's hand, and shifts a tiny bit closer. Just enough that Domhnall's hand, in its carefully judged spot at the last line of plausible deniability, is now one inch higher on Oscar’s thigh. If he’d reacted fast enough, he could have reached for the beer and avoided all this, but he didn’t. He kept still and played along and now that deniability is really looking strained. He’s sitting in a hotel room with his hand on his friend’s leg like he means something by it, and if Oscar moves that leg just a tiny bit closer to him he’s going to notice that Domhnall is suddenly, mortifyingly hard.

Oscar moves his leg closer.

Domhnall gasps and closes his eyes.

He can’t immediately tell if Oscar can feel him, but he can feel Oscar alright. Delicious pressure against his cock, and where has all this come from? From colleague to friend to someone whose hair he stares at in hotel rooms, to rubbing his hard on up against his leg? This has all happened way too fast.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t freak out,” Oscar says, and his hand closes warm and reassuring around Domhnall’s. “It’s not like you’re getting turned on by a robot or anything, now that really would be weird - ”

“Is this the example you choose because you _do_ get turned on by robots?” he manages.

“You bet I do,” Oscar says. He’s on the edge of laughter, and that’s familiar, like nothing about this is any different from all the other times they’ve hung out. “You gotta help me, man. How can I find sexual fulfillment with human beings again?”

Domhnall opens his eyes and dares to look at him. Oscar is clearly hard in his jeans, and Domhnall had hoped so, hoped he wouldn’t push it this far just as mockery, if he wasn’t into it too. But the spike of relief he feels is still powerful enough that he dares to push their joined hands even higher, and higher, and Oscar lets him. Oscar watches their hands move, and when they are right next to his cock he makes a small sound in the back of his throat and lets go as if to say, _I’m all yours, buddy._

Domhnall says, “You’re looking for sexual fulfillment? Normally I just knock one out and then go to sleep, so - ” and puts his hand over Oscar’s erection.

Oscar closes his eyes and arches his back and gasps out, “Ok, well I can work with that too.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you disappointed here,” Domhnall asks, rubbing him slowly through his trousers. His cock is thick and rock hard and he spreads his legs in invitation.

“Yeah man, go for it. I’m pretty easy to please.” He’s gratifyingly breathless, sprawled out there and practically begging for it.

This is almost certainly a terrible idea, but it’s too late to argue with his better judgement now. He’s in private with someone he likes, someone he likes a lot: his better judgement can present its case in the morning.

But when he starts to undo Oscar’s jeans, Oscar says, “What, you're not gonna kiss me first?”

Domhnall stops, mouth open in surprise.

“I'm about to put out and you're getting pissy with me because I didn't _kiss_ you?”

Oscar props himself up on his elbows, frowning at him. He’s already flushed and Domhnall hasn’t even got his zipper down yet. “Isn’t it me who's about to put out here?”

“What? No! The guy who _gives_ the blowjob is the one putting out, surely?”

“Oh, you’re gonna give me a blowjob?” he sounds impossibly pleased by this news.

“Well I _was_ ,” Domhnall says, eyebrows raised, “but you don’t seem like you’re really interested - ”

“Sure I am, but you oughta be complaining that I didn't kiss _you_. _I_ don't expect people to give me blowjobs without kissing them first,” he says with a shit-eating grin breaking out, “this isn't some Pretty Woman shit. _Honestly_ , have a little self fucking respect, man.”

Domhnall pushes him in mock annoyance and Oscar goes down flat on his back again, still smirking. He’s still smirking when Domhnall brings his whole weight down on top of him, where he could reach to kiss him if he wanted to. He does want to. Obviously he wants to. But he says,

“So what, you're saying I'm easy now? No, wait - are _you_ easy? You want me to buy you dinner first, is that it? This is - weirdly old fashioned and patriarchal, actually, Oscar - ”

Oscar slings an arm around his neck and moves under him in a frankly very distracting way. He’s tantalisingly close, and it would be so easy just to close the distance between them, commit to this once and for all.

But Oscar’s not done talking, and maybe he’s right, that’s what they do, they talk, and if they’re doing this then it’s as well as rather than instead. “You know, we should talk about how you see sex as a transaction, Domhnall, that can’t be healthy,” he says, “but you've already bought me dinner a load of times - ”

“I have, but I could get my coat and go out for _flowers_ , if that'd make you feel better. God knows I don't want you to think I offer to go down on _everyone_ I work with, so if you need this to be more special I think there's a 24 hour Tesco up the road - I could get you a Terry's Chocolate Orange, or - ”

“What? Why would that make it special? Is it a weird sex thing for you, or are you just trying to distract me from the kissing you don’t want to do? I’m not gonna force you into anything you don’t feel comfortable with...” Oscar says.

His face is pure provocation as he hooks one leg over Domhnall's, pulling their hips even closer together and Domhnall can’t help grinding against him. Well, he could help it, but he doesn’t think Oscar wants him to.

“At the risk of sounding patriarchal, I am really enjoying how much of a teenage girl you turn into when you’re turned on.”

“You know what, never mind,” Oscar says. “I just think kissing is a nice personal touch when you’re about to suck someone’s cock, but hey, whatever, if you don't actually _wanna_ get laid - ”

“Of course I want to! I just didn't know the kissing was such a deal breaker, honestly - come here and I’ll kiss you into next week, you arsehole…” he retorts, leaning in.

He stops just out of reach, braced with his nose not quite brushing Oscar’s, close enough to feel it when he lets out a shaky breath. And he doesn’t close the gap and he doesn’t close the gap until Oscar laughs, delighted, into the tiny space between them.

“You’re gonna make me work for it, huh?” he says.

“Oh yeah,” Domhnall tells him, and _then_ he kisses him.

Oscar melts into it. He puts both his arms around Domhnall and spreads his legs so Domhnall groans into his mouth, and Oscar just opens up and takes it. He kisses like he means it so Domhnall kisses like he means it back, deep and slow and a little bit nasty. He lets one hand sink into Oscar’s hair, this strange neat hair he hasn’t seen before, then rubs his thumb over Oscar’s cheek, stubble already rough against his skin.

He’s going to get beard burn. He doesn’t really care.

“And while we're at it,” Domhnall adds when he comes up for air, “I'm not going to do you on the bloody couch when Disney is paying for a fancy room with a very nice bed.”

Oscar blinks up at him and licks his lips like he can still taste him. His hair is curling wild at his temples, fighting back against whatever they do to straighten it on set. He looks strangely serious for a moment then he grins and says:

“Domhnall. I never knew you cared, buddy.”

“Oh of course you did.,” Domhnall says, because the caring should be obvious even if turning it into sex wasn’t. Then he kisses him again, just to make a point. He doesn’t know exactly what the point is, but maybe Oscar does.

“I'd have put out _months_ ago if I'd known you were gonna be so classy about it -” Oscar murmurs.

“Oh, just you wait,” Domhnall says, standing up and pulling him to his feet, “If you're lucky I'll even swallow.”

“Oh will you?” Oscar asks with a gleam in his eye, and then he’s crowding up into Domhnall space, slinging an arm round his neck to tug him down to carry on kissing him. It’s a pushy kiss, and even though he has to stand on tiptoes to reach, he backs it up with a solid weight advantage that’s all muscle.

There’s something comforting and familiar about this too: they’re past the age when you bond with your friends through horseplay and wrestling as an excuse to touch them, but that’s what this feels like. Oscar backs him up towards the huge bed, and Domhnall is expecting a push, Oscar is telegraphing a push. He’ll go along with it, and he knows exactly what he’s going to say, only Oscar doesn’t do it.

Instead he lets go and starts unbuttoning Domhnall’s shirt.

“We’re actually getting undressed?” he asks, lets his voice squeak at the end and yes, there it is, Oscar is laughing into his shoulder.

“Uh, well I guess I could just get on my knees and you could give me fifty bucks afterwards,” Oscar says, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and starting on his jeans. “But we’ve already kissed now, why cheapen it like that? I don’t need the money.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, and tugs at Oscar’s t-shirt until he lifts his arms and lets Domhnall pull if off over his head. It leaves his hair in wild disarray, and now he’s not so much the matinee idol any more, he’s the guy Domhnall knows from the press tour. He’s slimmed down a bit from the bulk Domhnall remembers from the Ex Machina shoot, but when that push finally comes it’s still more than enough to put him flat on his back on the bed.

And then Oscar’s kneeling between his legs and pulling his underwear off, muttering, “Ok Domhnall, last chance to back out, buddy,” but his hand is already wrapped around Domhnall’s cock and Domhnall is not even considering backing out.

“No, you go right ahead,” he gasps and Jesus Christ Oscar _does_.

Once you’re in your thirties there’s no polite way to ask another person where they learned to suck cock so he isn’t going to ask, but clearly Oscar has had some practice at this. Domhnall just lies there and takes it, panting up at the ceiling, one hand loose in Oscar’s hair and the other fisted in the sheets. Once you’re in your thirties you really shouldn’t come within three minutes flat either, but it’s so good, so hot and wet, and Oscar takes him right to the back of his throat and then looks up at him through those long lashes with his lips tight around his cock.

Domhnall says, “Oh God,” and comes in his mouth before he can even warn him.

Oscar coughs and chokes a little and pulls off, but his hand is still there, wringing the last traces of pleasure from him.

When Domhnall opens his eyes, Oscar has two drops of come in his hair, which is curling all over the place and looks exactly like someone’s been pulling it while he gave them a blowjob. It’s a good look on him, actually.

He also looks _extremely_ pleased with himself.

“Well that was worth more than fifty bucks,” Domhnall says weakly, still trying to get his breath back. “Thanks, man.”

Oscar wipes his mouth and flings himself down at Domhnall’s side. “You’re welcome.”

Domhnall considers pretending to fall asleep right now, just to mess with him, but that post-orgasm haze brings with it a wave of affection so powerful he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead he turns towards Oscar, slides an arm across his waist and kisses him. Oscar’s all tension and need, kissing back deep and desperate, and when Domhnall finally gets his jeans open he makes a frustrated noise and shimmies out of them in one fluid motion.

“Listen, you don’t really have to swallow,” he says, breathless, as Domhnall wraps a hand around his erection and starts to stroke.

“Shut up, Oscar,” Domhnall tells him.

Oscar says, “Uh,” when he takes him into his mouth and then he _does_ shut up.

He just breathes hard and rocks his hips up, and when Domhnall really gets into his rhythm he can hear Oscar panting and making soft needy little sounds that he is never ever going to admit to loving. All his reactions are right there in the open: his eyes are shut, his hair a wild tangle of curls on the bedspread, and when Domhnall pushes his knees further apart to get closer, Oscar groans from somewhere deep in his chest.

A second later and he’s choking out,

“Fuck, get off I’m gonna - ” which is just him having better sex etiquette than Domhnall managed, so he doesn’t get off, he is a man of his word, he said he would swallow so he will. As a matter of fact he likes it, but that’s another thing Oscar doesn’t need to know right now.

Oscar says, “Oh God,” and flings an arm over his face, and then he’s jerking and coming hard, his body trembling, breath coming in great gasps. It’s the hottest thing Domhnall has ever _seen_ , and he can’t even see all that well.

 

It ought to be awkward afterwards. Oscar lies there with his arm over his face for just long enough that Domhnall starts to worry he’s freaking out, but when he lets it flop back by his side there is a goofy grin on his face. He flails out to reach the bottle of water on the nightstand and passes it straight to Domhnall. Which is - weirdly considerate. Or not weirdly. That’s doing him an injustice; he talks a good talk, but Domhnall knows the difference between being a dick and keeping the conversation going so the other guy feels at ease.

He takes a drink and passes the bottle back, but Oscar drops it and pulls him down next to him. He turns on his side and slings an arm over Domhnall’s waist, slides his leg between Domhnall’s. They blink at each other across six inches of hotel bedspread.

“That went well, I thought,” Domhnall ventures. Oscar was the one to put his arms around him: he can be the first to answer _so_ _how was it for you?_

“That went great,” Oscar agrees. Then he adds: “Hey, you wanna be in a porno with me?”

“No I don’t, Oscar,” Domhnall tells him firmly. “I mean if I was going to be in a porno of course I’d want it to be with you - ”

“Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome - but I think we’d be playing to very niche audiences. My agent will tell me to stick to sci fi and so will yours.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right,” Oscar yawns and moves closer.

“Are you cold?” Domhnall asks, stroking down the smooth skin of his arm as if that would warm him.

“Yeah - here - ” and Oscar’s pushing the bedspread out from under them, and then up over them.

“I might fall asleep here,” Domhnall warns, but doesn’t make any effort to get up.

“Ok,” says Oscar, curling into him again.

Domhnall hadn’t expected any of this to happen and he hadn’t got as far as thinking about what he’d do afterwards, but Oscar wanting him to sleep the night here was not what he would have predicted. But that does seem to be what he wants. So Domhnall doesn’t remind him of the risk that someone will see him leave in the morning: he’ll just say he got drunk and fell asleep. That’s almost what happened, after all.

He smoothes Oscar’s curls out of his face and whispers, “But if we do make the porno, there should be robots in it,” and Oscar laughs so hard he starts coughing.

 

***

 

When the car drops him back at the hotel the next evening, he goes straight out again.

The Tesco’s is further away than he remembered and it’s cold, but he keeps walking until he finds it. And he buys a Terry’s Chocolate Orange and the ugliest bunch of flowers they have, and has them sent up to Oscar’s room without a note.

“He’ll know who they’re from,” he tells the receptionist.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look you'll feel happier if you just embrace that this is who you are as a person, you read Oscar Isaac RPF now. Come hang out with me on [Tumblr](http://deputychairman.tumblr.com/) to put it all in perspective!


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